


Most Beautified

by Lavosse



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Angst, Canon Era, I tagged this m/m even though Jehan is nb, M/M, Nonbinary Character, Nonbinary Jehan, Trans Male Character, Trans Parnasse, slight mention of blood?, urgh idk what to do about that
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-12
Updated: 2016-10-15
Packaged: 2018-08-22 00:19:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,768
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8265787
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lavosse/pseuds/Lavosse
Summary: Montparnasse gets back from a trip, Jehan is unhappy.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Eventualllllly I will post all the stuff I have written for Jehanparnasse Week. Eventually. I swear.

Montparnasse did not scare easily. It was ridiculous that he should be scared, even on the darkest of nights.

And yet here he was, terrified, of naught but emotions.

The whole reason he’d left was to get ahold of these. Babet had offered him a job on the other side of the city, and he’d taken it, in the hopes of time away curing him of this affliction—but a certain boy with bright red hair and radical politics refused to leave him be.

Now, it was a few hours after sunset, and Montparnasse had no plans. He knew he should get back to headquarters, but he wasn’t quite ready to face Babet, and so he lingered on a street corner, waiting for nothing, anxious and tired.

(It wasn’t that he wasn’t ready to face Babet. He wasn’t ready to say _things went down, I killed a man._ Wasn’t ready to face the image of that man, a decent man, lying bloodied and dying.)

So, knee-deep in self-pity, he waited, slumped against the brick wall. He had just decided to wait there until somebody worth robbing came along when he heard whooping and hollering in the distance, and two familiar figures barreled around the corner a few intersections down.

The larger figure, a hulking man with dark skin and wild sideburns, went racing past Montparnasse with a whoop; the other, a muscly, androgynous blonde wearing a mask, grabbed Montparnasse’s wrist and tugged him along.

These were Gueulemer and Claquesous, worryingly Babet-less.

“Where are we going?” Montparnasse demanded, full of righteous anger at being interrupted in his very important loitering.

Claquesous did not slow. “Remember that rock-tosser on fifth was, er—”

“Tossing his rocks?” Gueulemer inserted, sending Claquesous into hysterics of laughter. He punned, of course, on how in one strain of argot, ‘rock-tosser’ meant jeweler, but in another referred to a promiscuous man.

Montparnasse had finally gotten Claquesous to let go of his wrist. “Yes, the worse for me. Why?”

Claquesous was still chuckling to themself, which gave Montparnasse suspicions as to their sobriety.

“His dug an’ his mademoiselle found out ‘bout eachotha’,” Gueulemer explained, grinning. “You think they’d’a ripped eachotha’ up or somethin’, but they teamed up against him on his way home.”

“And that leaves the shop unguarded,” Montparnasse realized, a smile growing on his face.

Gueulemer just smirked in reply.

“Well then, get your asses in gear!” Montparnasse cried, and sped up.

+                      +                      +

Going out without Babet (that is, without hope of impulse control) was always a better idea than Montparnasse feared.

The three of them made their way back to headquarters, pockets heavy with jewelry, joyous and laughing. As they deposited their treasure onto the table, Gueulemer suggested going out. “Get drunk, mayyybe start a fight?” he offered.

Montparnasse shrugged. Normally, he would have been interested, but he was high on adrenaline and success, and there was a certain problem on his mind.

Claquesous laughed at Gueulemer. “’s’that the only way you can think of to celebrate?” They asked, making a face that could only be construed as a leer.

Needless to say, Montparnasse got out of there in a hurry, only stopping to grab a few pieces of jewelry.

He headed back to his place, an old hole-in-the-wall pub that was now just a hole in the wall plus a few dusty bottles of wine.

You could only see a few stars here, and Montparnasse thought Jehan would like that, the same way Jehan liked grass growing through pavement and people thriving in adversity.

Jehan liked Montparnasse, and they’d said as much.

Montparnasse groaned, and changed direction. He was going to see Jehan, and apologize for being gone. Jehan had been straightforward with him, and they deserved an answer.

He remembered when Gueulemer had realized the extent of his feelings for Claquesous. Montparnasse had been sitting in headquarters, attempting to appraise their latest acquisitions, when Gueulemer had suddenly stood up, declared “oh, fuck it,”, and marched out of the room.

(It was only later that Montparnasse discovered what this incident had been about, and at the time he hadn’t wanted to know, but he wondered now if that wasn’t the way to go.)

Jehan liked stars and flowers and music and graveyards. Jehan liked terrible clothes and brioche and, oddly enough, strangers they met at midnight.

Montparnasse liked Jehan, and damn him if he wasn’t going to do something about it.

+                      +                      +

It had begun to rain by the time Montparnasse got to Jehan’s flat. The night being well-advanced, he had thought Jehan would be asleep, but he was proven wrong by the sweet strains of flute music escaping out into the street. He resisted a fond smile—of course Jehan was still up. They were probably serenading the stars, or something equally poetic.

With some charm (and maybe a bribe, maybe) Montparnasse made it past the porter and ascended the stairs.

When Jehan opened the door, Montparnasse had to take a moment just to look, to make up for the week (more, really) away. Jehan was in a state of undress befitting eleven at night; they wore only shirtsleeves and trousers. Their hair curled loose and messy, unbraided and perfect, its vibrant color shining in the low light.

Jehan began to close the door.

“Jehan!” Montparnasse cried, literally sticking his foot in the door.

The poet sighed irritably.

“I brought you something,” Montparnasse offered.

“You can’t fix all your problems by bribing people,” Jehan said, but let Montparnasse push the door open.

Montparnasse cringed. “I’m sorry.” Jehan was the only person he’d ever apologized to.

“I’m sure you are.” Jehan’s face was hard in the way that plaster is hard—stony, but highly breakable.

The wind and rain were audible outside in the silence between them.

Finally, Jehan said, “It’s good that you’re here.” They closed the door. “It’s good to know you’re at least bothering to tell me you hate me.”

Montparnasse exhaled all in a rush, running a hand through his hair. “I don’t hate you.”

“I told myself that at first,” Jehan said. “But then you didn’t come back. Day after day. What was I supposed to think, Montparnasse?”

“Listen, Jehan—”

“No, love, you listen to me.” There was pain behind the plaster mask, and Montparnasse hated himself for being the one who’d caused it. “When another human being confesses a great secret to you, you should listen. Maybe even talk to them about it!” The sarcasm was sharper than a freshly whetted knife.

“All I wanted was to be honest with you,” they whispered, and the plaster façade broke.

Montparnasse murmured his apologies, guiding Jehan to the sofa that faced the hearth. Jehan buried their face in Montparnasse’s shoulder and sobbed.

“Jehan, please forgive me,” he whispered. “I didn’t know what to do. I didn’t know. I don’t.”

“I understand that,” Jehan said. “Next time, just…tell me so. Please.”

Montparnasse had more to say, but it was a more that made an anxious heat flare in his chest every time he thought about it, and for the umpteenth time in his life, he turned away from the difficult option.

They spoke no more, but held each other long into the night. It was not a restful sleep.


	2. Chapter 2

Montparnasse dreamt of things that still inspired wonder in him.

He dreamt of Notre Dame, with its crumbling, once-glorious façade. He dreamt of the brilliance of modern technology, the sensation of power he’d had the first time he’d fired a gun. He dreamt of perfect spirals and perfectly-stitched seams and people who handed out bread for free, and all these things added up to Jehan, because Jehan was a wonder in and of themself.

Montparnasse dreamt of thorny vines that sprouted in his lungs and grew to wrap around his heart. The thorns bit and scratched until they didn’t, and Montparnasse looked down to see that the thorns had turned into flowers and there was a whole ecosystem in his lungs. He was irreparably changed, but so much more alive than he’d been before.

When he awoke, the lucidity was startling.

Jehan, sleepy-eyed but awake, was curled into Montparnasse’s side, gazing out the window at the lightening sky. When Montparnasse stirred, they turned, to see he was awake. “Good morning,” they said.

The guilt from the night before flooded back to him, and he opened his mouth to say something—anything—but Jehan continued.

“I’ve been thinking,” they said. “I wasn’t very clear last night. I want you to know that none of this changes what I said.”

They paused.

“I do love you.”

Montparnasse wanted to argue. _You’re just in love with the idea of me_ or _I’m not who you think I am_ or _I’m not good enough_ , and he didn’t know what to do.

He’d once had an old man, one he’d intended to rob, lecture him on his lack of foresight. The man had talked about Montparnasse’s career choice, berated him on choosing the most difficult path for himself. Montparnasse still didn’t believe that the old man had been correct—what did an old man know about the problems of today, the pains of an impoverished youth?—but he thought maybe, at this crossroads, there was a method of choosing the happiest route forward.

Montparnasse was not willing to let this go.

“I can’t promise you anything,” he began. “I don’t know how this works. I’m not—very dependable. But I do believe I return your feelings.”

Jehan looked up so quickly Montparnasse wondered if one could break one’s neck that way.

“Really?” they asked, eyes troubled. “Please don’t lie to me, Parnasse, I’d rather—”

“I won’t lie. Not to you. Not again.”

“I wish you hadn’t left,” Jehan said, “but I am glad you’re back.”

Montparnasse tentatively pressed his lips to the top of Jehan’s head.

“I had to come back, _oiseau_ ,” he said, testing the name. Jehan made a little amused noise, so he judged it acceptable. “You’re one of the best things that—” he sighed. “Dammit, I’m bad at this. You’re just one of the best things, okay? All-around.”

Jehan laughed, smiling widely. “I’m glad.”

In a perfect story ending, they would have remained, snuggling and watching the sunrise, until some undefined event beyond the bounds of the story, but nobody gets perfect story endings. Jehan had a meeting with a publisher that morning, and Montparnasse had a job to wrap up, and so they parted, but with hope.

Montparnasse was not accustomed to being scared, and he was terrified of this, but he calculated the risks and concluded it was a jump worth taking.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please validate my pretentious literary writing :)


End file.
